A Morbid Riddle: The Rewrite
by Murkatroyd
Summary: OneShot. Sequel to Diary of a Madman: The Rewrite. A brief look at the teenage Voldemort's thoughts as he tracked down and murdered the Muggle family that abandoned him before his birth. Contains scenes from Book 6. Amendments made to the original story.


It was all too easy.

Standing before him was someone he could only assume was a Gaunt, living in a disgusting home that had once been his dead mother's. He looked like little more than a primate with his overgrown hair and beard and his disgusting odor, and the teenage Lord Voldemort almost let out a disgusted noise – almost. He would not let emotion or expression pass over him, not to this creature: it was human only in physical shape as far as Voldemort was concerned.

The disgusting man had recognized Voldemort on sight, which was bizarre, because Voldemort had never seen this man before that he knew of, and Voldemort prided himself in his memory recall.

"_Where is Marvolo?_" asked Voldemort, who was becoming bothered by the horrible smell of the place.

The other man looked confused.

"_Dead,_" he replied in Parseltongue. "_Died years ago, didn't he?_"

"_Who are you, then?_" he asked with a frown, speaking in Parseltongue. He was definitely a Gaunt, but Voldemort was only aware of two members of that family: his mother and her father.

"_I'm Morfin, ain't I?_" the only living Gaunt replied, sounding drunk even through his hissing.

"_Marvolo's son?_" asked Voldemort.

"_Course I am, then …_"

Voldemort stared at the man, an eyebrow arched. So this was his uncle, the brother of his dead mother. He knew enough about his family's history to know that Marvolo Gaunt was his biological grandfather, his mother's father, as that was where his middle name had come from. His first name, that hated name, had come from his father. He had never met either man personally, as his father had never looked for him and his grandfather was apparently dead, and had been for years, according to Morfin. Voldemort was going to have a nice little reunion with his father soon, though … a _painfully_ nice reunion.

However, he had to get around the issue with the Trace before then, as he was not yet seventeen. The Ministry of Magic would trace the magic he intended to use straight to him otherwise, and he did not need or want that. It did not fit with his plans for revenge, and that was one thing that motivated the young Tom Riddle, better known now as Lord Voldemort, more than anything else.

As he scrutinized the man before him, Morfin pushed his hair out of his eyes with a free hand, and with a jolt Voldemort realized that this was his grandfather's ring, the heirloom of the Gaunt family.

_The perfect item to use as one of my beloved ties to this world, to make myself immortal,_ thought Voldemort.

"_I thought you was that Muggle,_" said Morfin Gaunt suddenly, and Voldemort turned his attention back to Morfin. "_You look mighty like that Muggle._"

An unnatural look of hatred crossed Morfin's face as he said it, though Voldemort took little notice; the man's qualms with Muggles meant nothing to him. Morfin Gaunt was clearly mad. However, he was curious about his resemblance to the Muggle.

"_What Muggle?_" Voldemort asked, his tone sharper than he perhaps intended.

"_That Muggle what my sister took a fancy to,_" said Morfin, almost sneering, "_that Muggle what lives in the big house over the way._" He spat at the floor, but Voldemort ignored the gesture. "_You look mighty like him. Riddle,_" he added, as though he had just caught the name.

_Ah, so that's the Muggle he hates,_ thought Voldemort. His features darkened momentarily. _It appears that my hatred for my dear father is not unique. This Morfin seems to hate the man just as much as I hate him … I do believe I can use this to my advantage …_

"_But he's older now, i'n 'e?_" continued Morfin._ "He's older'n you, now I think of it._"

Morfin seemed to be experiencing a number of scattered memories all at once, for he did not seem to know what he meant, though the intention was crystal-clear to Voldemort. As Morfin spoke, he staggered a bit and grabbed the table harder to as not to fall over. It was all Voldemort could do to contain his disgust.

"_He come back, see,_" added Morfin, his hissing voice displaying his lack of intelligence.

Voldemort stared at Morfin. His ideas for using Morfin's anger and hatred towards the senior Tom Riddle were more forward in his mind than ever.

Stepping forward, he said, "_Riddle came back?_"

"_Ar, he left her, and serve her right, marrying filth!_" snarled Morfin, spitting at the floor again. "_Robbed us, mind, before she ran off!_" he added. "_Where's the locket, eh, where's Slytherin's locket?_"

Voldemort offered no response. The mention of the locket, and its name, had caught his interest. If he could find it, it would be another item to use for his ties to immortality. His Horcruxes, once he was sure that he could actually use them in the plural, would be the most powerful objects in history!

Enraged by an unknown cause – perhaps his own hatred and fury – Morfin pulled out a knife and waved it around, earning an inward chuckle from Voldemort.

"_Dishonoured us, she did, that little slut!_"

This was the first thing Morfin had said that actually bothered Voldemort, who felt an emotion for the first time since entering the crumbling shack: anger was billowing inside him at the insult toward his mother. He cared nothing for her – she had died, the weak fool. But he could not help the slight soft spot for her, the woman who had given him birth, something he did not understand at all. He did not know love, the sort of thing that Albus Dumbledore, his fool Transfiguration professor, might feel and experience, but he knew that he felt something for Merope Gaunt.

_This man will pay._

"_And who're you, coming here and asking questions about all that?_" yelled Morfin, angered at the man before him who so greatly resembled the Muggle he hated. "_It's over, innit … it's over …_"

As Morfin looked away, still stumbling a little, Voldemort stepped forward, raising his own wand with the hand that wasn't holding the lamp. He knew what to do now. He was going to use this man for a very useful cause, whether Morfin knew it or not.

With a mere flick of his wand, without a word or thought, Morfin fell to the jet of red light, the disgusting man's knife and wand hitting the floor before Morfin did himself. Voldemort stood over the unconscious man who was his uncle, wishing he could kill this unworthy pig himself, but knowing that he needed someone to take the fall for his plan. He bent down, picked up Morfin's wand, and took the ring from his hand and pocketed it. If nothing else, the ring was rightfully his anyway. As for Slytherin's locket, he would track it down and bring it into his possession in due time. For now, he had a task to do.

Without another word, Voldemort left the rotting shock. He would be back soon enough.

* * *

The Riddle House was large, vast, and stank of the rich. Lord Voldemort hated the mere sight of it. His hood covering his face and his long cloak billowing behind him, Voldemort quietly walked up the long path leading to the front doors of the house.

He debated on knocking, if for no other reason than suspense, but quickly decided that throwing the doors open was more satisfying.

It was a large entrance hall, to say the least, but he paid it no mind. Voldemort calmly entered the house, Morfin's wand twirling around in his fingers, and scanned the hall. The sound of voices led him to where he needed to go, and he followed them like a predator sneaking up upon its prey, until he stood in the doorway of the drawing room, and gazed at the three people he knew he was related to, however much he loathed the relation.

Two of the Muggles could have been anyone. He knew them to be his Muggle grandparents, though they did not resemble him much. They were old, though not much more so than Dumbledore, and looked as though they had reined in riches for as long as they had been alive. The third and youngest Muggle, to Voldemort's shock, looked exactly like him. Though clearly a great many years older – he looked to be nearing his forties, give or take a few years – the other Tom Riddle was nearly an exact replica of Voldemort, and the self-proclaimed Dark Lord hated the sight.

At that moment, Voldemort vowed to make sure that he looked nothing like the man once he was in full control of his own life, after he was of age.

"Who are you?" Mr. Riddle barked, seeing Voldemort in the doorway of the room. He stepped forward. "How did you get in here? You are not an invited guest!"

Voldemort had to stop himself from laughing outright. The man had not yet seen his face, which was concealed beneath his hood. He could only imagine what the old man would say if he saw just what Voldemort looked like.

"We asked you who you were," Tom Riddle said coldly, and Voldemort turned to look at his father with disgust. The man even _sounded_ like him. "You will give us an answer, or we will have you arrested right now."

"Detain _I_?" said Voldemort finally, his voice equally as cold. "You are a fool to assume that you can ever overpower Lord Voldemort, you filthy Muggle."

He would not call him Father. As far as Voldemort was concerned, there was no relation between them in anything except biology.

"_Lord_, eh?" said Mr. Riddle, jeering at the name. "You don't look high up in the ranks to me, boy!"

Voldemort hissed angrily at the term 'boy', and Mr. Riddle's resolve faded momentarily.

"If you could see my face," Voldemort hissed, his attention now on his grandfather, "you would not act as you are. However, you will never see my face, Muggle. You will be the first to die for your disrespect."

Before the elderly man could say anything, Voldemort raised his uncle's wand and pointed it at Mr. Riddle's heart.

"_Avada Kedavra!_"

His hatred, his anguish, his pain at being raised in an orphanage, abandoned by his Muggle family, all poured into the Killing Curse as its green light hit his grandfather, ending his life before his body even had the chance to crumple.

"Father!" shouted Riddle, rushing to his side and taking his hand. Voldemort stifled a scoff at the sight.

"Don't bother, you fool," he sneered at his father. "Your father is dead, as you soon will be."

"Who are you?" shouted Mrs. Riddle, speaking for the first time; she was in tears at what she was quickly realizing was the death of her husband. "Why are you doing this?"

For the first time, anger entered Voldemort's voice as he spoke, his rage breaking.

"You want to know why I am here, why I am doing this?" he demanded, his tone colder than ever, and both remaining Riddles shuddered. "It is because of _you_! You left me, you abandoned me, not caring whether I lived or died! You wish to know why I hate all of you so much that I will kill you! Because of you, I spent my life as an orphan, believing that my parents were both dead, living my life as a common child, no different from any other kid who lived amongst me! I have never known anything other than anger, and it is all because of you!"

He pointed the wand at his grandmother.

"I should thank you for one thing, however," Voldemort said coolly. "Were it not for your abandonment of me, Tom Riddle, I would never have known true power!"

"I don't know what you're talking about!" shouted Riddle, standing up to face Voldemort.

"You will in a moment, Muggle," replied Voldemort, his attention trained on his father even though his wand was trained on his grandmother. "Unlike with your father, I will grant you the knowledge of who I am before you die, here and now."

Without another word, he pulled back his hood.

There was stunned silence for a moment, broken by Mrs. Riddle's scream.

"It can't be!" she shrieked. "You look like a younger replica of Tom!"

"Of course I do, you stupid woman," snapped Voldemort, his eyes still trained on his father. "My name is Tom Marvolo Riddle, and I am the biological son of that scum." He pointed at Riddle. "Do you remember, Muggle? Do you remember abandoning my mother, Marvolo Gaunt's daughter?"

The color in Riddle's face was rapidly fading.

"Yes, I do," he said quietly. "That foul witch who tricked me, she made me believe I loved her. She hoodwinked me into marrying her. I abandoned her when I finally regained my senses, and I will never forgive her," he spat, anger edging into his hushed tones.

"Oh, you don't have to worry about her," said Voldemort angrily, hints of red clouding over his dark eyes, "as she died after giving birth to me."

"And good riddance to her!" shouted Riddle, his fists clenched. Ignoring his mother's fearful look, he took a few steps forward, their eyes locked. The older Tom Riddle stood a little taller. "She meant nothing to me, boy! She was the child of a tramp, an inbred old fool, and she deserved to die as he did! Trash, the lot of them! And whoever _you_ think you are – Tom, Voldemort, whatever you call yourself – well, you're no better! You are no son of mine!"

With those words, he spat at Voldemort's face.

The rage turned into cold fury all at once.

"You shouldn't have done that," he whispered, his voice deadly, Morfin Gaunt's wand still trained on Mrs. Riddle. "Now your mother will pay the price for your mistake. _AVADA KEDAVRA!_"

The green light once again left the wand, and Mrs. Riddle crumpled to the floor, moving no more.

"NO! MOTHER!" screamed Riddle. He ran to his mother's side and knelt next to her. "No, please, you can't be dead, you just can't!"

Tears were freely falling down Riddle's face now. He turned to face Voldemort, a carbon copy of himself, and Voldemort sneered at him.

"You will pay for this!" shouted Riddle, his anger breaking free.

"You really think you should be threatening me, _Father_?" Voldemort said, his sneer more pronounced now. "I have the power to end your life with two words and a flick of this wand, and you're going to run your mouth? Not an altogether wise decision, Muggle."

"You will pay!" Riddle shouted again. He dashed to a table along the wall, opened the drawer, and pulled out what Voldemort thought might be a Muggle gun. He had seen one in pictures at the orphanage before. "You're going to die, you vermin!"

Voldemort laughed. It was a high, cold laugh that rang through the room.

Riddle pointed the gun at Voldemort, but as though he were a flash of light, Voldemort vanished from Riddle's sight completely.

"What the –"

Riddle didn't know what to do. He pointed his gun left and right, looking for any sign of his supposed son, but found no trace of him anywhere. He ran out into the entrance hall, but there was no sign of the boy who shared his name out there either. His hands were trembling now, and his gun was shaking with them. If there was one thing Tom Riddle feared, it was death, and he was quite petrified with the realization that he was about to die.

Then, quite suddenly, Voldemort's voice echoed through the house.

"Where to turn, little Riddle, where to fire?"

Voldemort's voice, magnified several dozen times its original volume, cackled through the silence of the Riddle house.

"Where will you look next, Muggle, and what will you find when you turn? You cannot hope to best someone with magic. You are a mere Muggle." The voice echoed through the house, ricocheting off the walls and doors, and Riddle flinched. He still didn't know what 'Muggle' meant.

"Where are you?" Riddle shouted.

"Just follow the fear in your own voice, and the trembling of your fingers!"

Riddle dashed back into the drawing room, looking momentarily at his parents, whose dead bodies were beside the table. He had run only two feet into the room when Voldemort suddenly emerged in front of him, laughing madly. The wand he held was trained on Riddle.

Truthfully, he had never left the spot. He had cast a wandless Disillusionment Charm upon himself to frighten Riddle into thinking he had vanished.

"You will not live to tell of your meeting with your orphaned son," Voldemort hissed.

"Please don't kill me!" begged Riddle, his composure completely broken. "I don't want to die!"

Voldemort's eyes widened, his disgust more pronounced than ever. This man, the man who had abandoned him to the orphanage without care after abandoning his pregnant wife, was begging for his life?

"No more of this game, Muggle!" Voldemort hissed, and he pointed the wand at Riddle's heart. "_Avada Kedavra!_"

As though held up by strings that had suddenly snapped, Tom Riddle crumpled to the ground, dead even before his head hit the hard floor. His eyes, dark as his son's, were wide, and the fear was etched into their gaze forever.

Voldemort gazed down at his biological father's corpse without emotion or regret. This was something he had looked forward to ever since he had found out that his father was a Muggle, ever since he had abandoned his father's name for the alias he had formed so long ago. Without another word, he stepped over his father's body and walked out of the drawing room, feeling a great sense of what he thought might be accomplishment.

As he crossed the entrance hall, he noticed a black book on a table near the door. It looked to be a diary.

_Hmm …_ he thought, picking up the diary. _This may come in handy someday._

He did not know why he thought so; an idea had come to his mind that was seemingly not his own, as though someone else was thinking in his mind.

_One day, the world will know and fear the name I have chosen. Until that day, I will remain shrouded in mystery. I will imprint the memory of my current self into this book, and one day all will know that I, Lord Voldemort, was the boy that everyone was foolish enough to believe was a mere prodigy, to serve their world._

He pocketed the book, intent on one day making it into a Horcrux, and Disapparated the moment he stepped outside.

* * *

As Lord Voldemort once again stepped into the hovel that was once his mother's home, his eyes fell upon Morfin Gaunt, who was still unconscious. His lips curved into a smirk. He raised the man's wand and performed a spell that would transfer a false memory into the mind of the last Gaunt: a memory that the man had entered the manor himself and had killed all three Riddles where they sat. He didn't want to world to know that he had killed them. He didn't want the world to know that he had any connection to them at all.

He tossed the wand down onto his uncle's feebly stirring body and left the shack, holding the ring and diary with victory. His work was finished here. He had taken his revenge.


End file.
